


The Side of Angels

by Knockoutsince91



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, BAMF Clarice Starling, BAMF Molly, BAMF Molly Hooper, Crossover, Drug Addict Sherlock, Drug Addiction, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Eventual Smut, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Movie: The Silence of the Lambs (1991), Rehabilitation, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is a Mess, Silence of the Lambs References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24580825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knockoutsince91/pseuds/Knockoutsince91
Summary: Loosely based off of Silence of the Lambs (1991), Molly Hooper is a fresh recruit to the MI5 academy. All seems well, until Mycroft Holmes tasks Molly with the hardest challenge she has ever faced: gain the trust of Sherlock Holmes and get him sober and functioning before the Honeymoon Killer strikes again. Through many setbacks, Molly becomes more and more obsessed and intrigued by the younger Holmes, whose sarcastic and rude behavior is actually a front for other feelings he desperately tries to hide.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Molly Hooper, Mycroft Holmes/Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 18
Kudos: 35





	1. The Task

_Push farther, just a little bit farther._ Molly could see her breath swirl into the air as she plodded along the outdoor trail, her sweater front soaked in sweat as she tried to keep up with her MI5 classmate, John Watson. She swallowed hard and sped up, trying to match his stride. He smiled sideways at her as they matched their stride, and she grinned back triumphantly. They met the rope wall at the same time, and each climbed the ropes with some difficulty since the morning dew made the well worn ropes slippery beneath their feet. The sweat was streaming into Molly’s eyes as she swung her leg over the rope course wall, taking a few moments to readjust herself and then repel down the other side by a way of a long, coarse rope.

“Hooper!” A distant voice barked out, the call echoing amongst the trees. Molly dropped the last few feet to the ground quickly, steadying herself with her hands and standing straight up, looking for the source. One of her trainers jogged up steadily, nodding to John as a silent signal to keep going, and Molly nodded as John shrugged and turned to continue on the trail. “Hooper, Mycroft Holmes wants to see you in his office.” Molly gave him a slight look of confusion, “Me, sir?” She asked incredulously, and he nodded slightly “Head up to the facility, Agent Hooper. He said it’s urgent,” Molly nodded and slowly jogged to the main building, still confused as ever. What could Mycroft Holmes want with her? Sure, he’d been her lecturer at the University of Surrey, but she was among hundreds of other students, and many of those same students had gone on to the MI5 academy. She’d been training at the academy for only a short time, and of course she was aware that Mycroft Holmes had an auxiliary office in the lower levels of the training building, but she had put it from her mind and focused on trying to become a full fledged MI5 agent. The fact that he remembered her by name, and the fact that he was so keen on meeting with her now was completely baffling. She tried to smooth her hair as she walked up to the building, knowing she looked quite disheveled from the course training.

As she approached the elevator, the mirrored reflection of the doors revealed that her efforts in taming her sweaty ponytail was a lost cause. She sighed and her shoulders sagged, but she pressed the down button and waited for the lift to approach ground level. Two men walked up business suits. One eyed her questionably, and the other had a flirtatious smirk playing across his lips. Molly looked up at the numbers counting down to 1, tapping her foot impatiently. She wanted to be back on the course, or better yet, taking a nice hot shower to rid herself of the sweat still continuing to roll off of her forehead and other parts of her body. It begged the question of what could be so urgent to pull her off of the course in the first place. Maybe it had something to do with the latest string of murders associated with the Honeymoon Killer? But why her?

When the familiar chime signaled the arrival of the lift, Molly stepped in followed by the two other gentlemen and she quickly pressed the B2 button. The lift shuddered to life and began its descent to the lower levels of the building. Somewhat nervous, Molly took a few deep breaths, and the doors slid open once more.

Although the building above could be considered a formidable brick fortress with its tiny slitted windows and the sheer massive size, the basement was much less intimidating. Green linoleum checkerboard tiles lined the long hall that seemed to stretch infinitely down the corridor, then in the far distance, abruptly ended and opened to the right, leading down another equally long and equally green hallway. No one ever wanted to visit the basement. The offices were fairly cramped, there was a perpetual stuffiness that never went away, and smelled slightly moldy no matter what the cleaning crew tried to do to stifle it. It was the forgotten area of the entire building. While modernity had touched the upper levels, the basement remained stuck in the eighties.

Molly walked slowly past the various offices, reading the antiquated faux wood name plates on the doors as she passed. Her sneakers squeaked slightly as she walked, and she tried to stifle her tell-tale shoes as she shuffled down the corridor. For someone as prestigious as Mycroft Holmes, one would think that they would give him an office above ground. Though, being a mere auxiliary office, surely he took whatever was given to him with grace and appreciation, though surely mumbled sarcastically behind closed doors.

“Mycroft Holmes” was the only indication of the location of his office. The copy paper taped to the placard instead of a faux wood name plate suggested that Mr. Holmes hadn’t worried with any real permanency in this office. Molly rapped on the door lightly three times, and a resounding tenor answered with a “Come in, Ms. Hooper.”

Molly stepped through the doorway and was greeted with, to put it simply, a complete mishmash of newspaper clippings. The walls were covered with articles, each circled or underlined in some way with red ink, a few were plucked from the wall and lay strewn across Mycroft Holmes’s desk for further review. Coffee rings adorned some, and a few others had stains resembling chinese takeaway, of which Molly knew all too well. Mycroft had pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, inhaled deeply, and looked up. “Ah, Miss Hooper! Just the woman I need to see.”

Molly swallowed deeply, and after pushing a few things out of the way, with Mycroft’s permission, she settled into the metal chair across from his desk. She was offered tea, but waved it away. Tapping her foot anxiously, Molly blurted out, “Sir, not to be rude, but what exactly did you need to see me for?” She asked curiously, her hands placed in her lap. She felt awfully out of her element, what with the sweat soaked uniform and Mycroft’s expensive looking suit, she felt even more perturbed.

Mycroft sighed heavily and placed both hands on the desk, standing up slowly. He looked weary. She had never seen him like this, not in all the lectures she had attended or any occasional office hours she might have meandered into. “Miss Hooper, let me begin by saying that you were one of my brightest students. I gave you an A in your seminar class, which rarely happens--”

“--A minus, sir,” Molly corrected him with a small smile. Mycroft returned it, then continued, “When I heard you were accepted into the academy, I was not surprised, and believe me, I had hoped to allow you to continue your courses in peace,” His gaze diverted, seemingly dazed as he continued, “But I need your help. You might be the only person who can indeed help.” He sighed again, turning his weary gaze to Molly again. “I’m sure you’ve guessed that this is regarding the Honeymoon Murders that that papers have been incessantly covering,” He motioned to the wall where the many articles were littered. “I know you Molly. I know you have… experience in the task I am going to allot to you,” He smirked slightly, a gleam of interest catching his eye. “Obviously, since you are not an agent yet, you cannot handle this on your own. I would not expect you to either. So my task is this,” He leaned forward, his fingers steepled as his direct gaze bore into hers, “I need you to get me my brother, Sherlock Holmes.”


	2. The Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long friends! Here is chapter 2. Hope you enjoy it.

“Sherlock Holmes-- he wants you to get his own brother?” John questioned, mid-bite into his sandwich. John was Molly’s closest friend in the academy. They had both been students at the University of Surrey at the same time, and both took similar classes, though John was accepted into the academy ahead of her. Molly suspected that was due to his prior military service, but neither of them commented on it and John regularly studied with her and picked her brain, even in classes she hadn’t taken yet. Regardless, he was a great friend and an asset to have on her side, which is why she trusted his opinion on the subject beyond anyone else. 

“That’s exactly what I said… or rather, blurted out,” Molly wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug in front of her, sipping deeply and enjoying the warmth provided to her body, which was still in her sweaty jumper and pants. “How did he respond?” John asked, wiping his hands on his napkin.  
“He said that he hasn’t spoken with his younger brother in years. I tried to ask why, but he cut me off-- started giving me details of what I needed to know to access him.” Molly’s eyes diverted to the table, not really wanting to explain herself anymore. “What do you mean by ‘access’, Molly?” John’s eyes narrowed as he sipped on his own coffee, his gaze direct.  
“His brother is a permanent resident at Saint Bartholomew’s Rehabilitation and Mental Wellness Center,” Molly sighed, looking back at John, wondering what he would think. John looked as puzzled as she felt.  
“Well if Mycroft knows where he is, then why not just pick him up? Surely with his government clearance he could get him out, this all doesn’t make sense Molly,” John rubbed his eyes, stirring his coffee rapidly.   
Molly knew that the wheels in his head were turning, and she placed her hand on his lightly, “All I know is I trust Mycroft, and for some reason, he trusts me. I also believe the bad blood between the brothers has left him without a way to get through to Sherlock, and for some reason, he needs my help.” Molly wiped her bangs away from her forehead, “For some reason, he thinks I can get Sherlock Holmes to help catch the Honeymoon Killer.” She whispered, leaning over the table towards John. His jaw clenched and unclenched, his eyes widened a bit but made no other overt look of surprise.  
“Molly, are you sure you want to go alone? I can always go with you.” John offered, his eyes silently pleading with her to let him go. John was forever the protector.   
“John I can’t. You know I’d love to, but Mycroft has entrusted me with this task. The least I can do is be brave enough to go alone.” Molly said with finality, taking her hand off of John’s, the blush in her face evident.   
“Well if you need me... for anything... I’m here.” He smiled tightly, and Molly nodded.   
“I’m supposed to visit the hospital tomorrow, I’ll let you know what happens, okay?” Molly said, and John nodded solemnly. 

The day was overcast, as most days were lately. It looked as if the heavens would open at any moment, but the water droplets seemed to stay resolutely in the sky. Molly clutched the dossier tightly in her lap as one of Mycroft’s black sedans carried her to her destination. She had poured over the information given to her the night before, but it all seemed so stiff and rigid.   
There was only strict reporting of the events that led the youngest Holmes to become a permanent resident at the building she was slowly approaching. The dossier noted a traditional upbringing, both mother and father were highly educated and, from all accounts, happily married. Information on Mycroft’s past was redacted, as one would expect from a high ranking member of the British Government. Molly scoffed as she flipped through pages with black lines running through them. She stopped once she reached Sherlock’s section. From what Molly could tell, he had a rather normal, if not highly privileged, upbringing. He excelled in his private school, played violin starting at age three, and seemed a quiet child, other than the venomous statements he was known to hurl at anyone, even his teachers. All seemed typical until Molly noted he dropped out of university. The University of Surrey, her alma mater. Looking for a reason, she saw that there was none mentioned. It seemed Sherlock had begun to see a psychologist and psychiatrist, but stopped after approximately three appointments. Then came the rehabilitation centers, which seemed he was in and out of regularly for the next few years. A criminal record cropped up amid the commitments to rehab, and the last line read, “Permanently housed in Saint Bartholomew’s Rehabilitation and Mental Wellness Center - Release Date Undetermined.” Molly sat back against the leather car seat, her eyes closed. He wasn’t much older than herself, according to the case file. He was undeniably brilliant, and was still writing papers that were regularly published in criminology journals. Molly thought she might have even used his papers for some of her own research. Why would he throw all of that away? 

Molly’s heart sunk into her stomach as they pulled up to the formidable brick building. Though by name it was Saint Bartholomew’s Rehabilitation and Wellness Center, it looked more like a prison. Iron bars on all the windows, and barbed wire surrounded the entire facility. How could a person get better in a place like this? Molly stepped out of the car, nodded to the driver solemnly as he drove away as thunder rolled over her head. She sighed, clutched her briefcase, and approached the doors.

Once inside, Molly’s identification was checked by a sleepy eyed nurse, who nodded and motioned for her to follow, and Molly’s heels clacked quickly along the starch white linoleum to keep up with the nurse. “Mr. Holmes is housed in his own separate wing,” drolled the nurse “He has one nurse who stays with him pretty much continuously, you’ll meet her when we arrive in his wing.”  
“Why only one nurse? Surely she must get overwhelmed,” Molly interrupted, and the nurse huffed and rolled her eyes, “Because Mr. Holmes has a nasty temper and she’s the only one who can handle his mouth. I’ve had nurses quit in one day, walking out of here crying their eyes out because of him.”   
The unmistakable vitriol in her words lingered as they turned a corner. A lone desk sat next to a pair of doors, which was their destination. An old woman was watching a TV show at the desk, a bag of crisps in one hand, her eyes never moving from the television set. The other nurse coughed a few times to let the other know they were there. She finally turned to the pair in her own time. She looked like a sweet old lady; short, a little plump, a bright smile, and frizzy, permed hair. It seemed like she was allowed to forgo the typical nurse’s scrubs and wore a simple dress and cardigan, her name plate on the desk read “Mrs. Hudson” In gold letters, and it matched her name tag attached to her chest.  
“Hello dearie,” She said kindly, her eyes sparkling. “Mycroft mentioned Sherlock would have a visitor today, go on Mrs. Brockelhurst, I can take care of her from here,” to which Mrs. Brocklehurst turned on her heel and walked quickly away. Mrs. Hudson stared after her, distaste quickly colored her face, “If that old bat has told you any stories, don’t believe ‘em. Sherlock has a temper, but he’s civil. Respect him and he’ll respect you.” Her eyes turned light and happy again, a small smile replacing her tight frown.   
“Hello Mrs. Hudson, I’m Molly Hooper,” Molly said, quickly switching her briefcase to her other hand to extend for a handshake. She shook it firmly. “I won’t keep you from your duties Ms. Hooper, but I’d like to give you a few pointers if that’s okay with you?”  
Molly nodded, “Any help you can give me would be greatly appreciated, Mrs. Hudson,” to which the woman nodded and motioned her to follow, “Sherlock is not the typical psychiatric patient. He’s not really a psychiatric patient at all, though you’ll see that for yourself soon enough. He’s brilliant, eloquent... but he has a temper. Please do not bring in any paper clips or sharp objects, and I’d leave that with me if you know what’s good for you,” Mrs. Hudson peered down at the gun on Molly’s hip. Molly reluctantly swung the gun and belt from her hip and held Mrs. Hudson’s eyes as she laid the gun and holster in her hands. “He’s in the recreation room, just beyond there. I’ll be watching the cameras but I doubt you’ll need me. He’s not dangerous… well usually. He’s an addict. Doesn’t make him irritable unless he’s having withdrawals. He’ll be at the piano more than likely, good luck dearie,” She squeezed Molly’s shoulder and Molly let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in. She walked down the corridor and heard the piano, but it wasn’t a tune she knew offhand. Molly pushed through the double doors quietly, wondering how this interaction was going to go. 

The baby grand piano was tucked away in the corner of the room, a tall, skinny man was bent over the keys. Molly stood quietly at the entrance, briefcase in both hands, observing the room she had walked into. Metal chairs were stacked in the right hand corner, the windows were shuttered except for the three large windows where the piano stood, which allowed the grey light to creep in. The fluorescent lights were off, probably to avoid their harsh light. The floor was wood instead of the linoleum in this part of the building, a gorgeous brown that reminded her of a dance studio and not a mental hospital. Maybe that was its purpose. The man had not acknowledged her presence, but merely continued to scribble something on paper. Molly approached slowly, and still no acknowledgement from the man on the piano bench.  
“Aha!” He exclaimed, startling Molly slightly, as he swiveled around to the keys, placing the sheet music up, corrected his posture, and began to play. Molly slowly walked around to his left side so as not to impede the light coming through the window. She watched him play, and had a chance to observe him for a moment. For one, he was barefoot. His long feet pressed the pedals languidly, and his long fingers pressed the keys with precision. He was in a basic white v-neck shirt and loose flowing pajama pants, his hair was wild, the curls growing in odd directions, and the stubble on his chin was a few days old. His focus was completely on the sheet music in front of him, and once he had stopped, seemed stuck on his next few phrases and how he wanted them, he pulled down the sheet music and scribbled. Molly finally broke the silence,” Mr. Holmes, my name is Molly Hooper, may I speak with you?”   
He made no attempt to look up, still writing then erasing again, and Molly made another attempt, “That was remarkable Mr. Holmes, when did you start playing?” He erased rapidly, then touched the end of his pencil to his lips, she noticed his fingers covered in graphite. “Yesterday.” He said with sincerity, his eyes darting across the page and the phrase he was working on. “Couldn’t smuggle in a violin. Too many pointed ends and the resin…. Won’t do,” He finally looked at her, his gaze was scrutinizing her and sizing her up. Not in a sexual way, but regardless Molly felt like she was under a microscope. She felt like she was being presented for inspection, or dissection, she couldn’t decide which. “Can I see your credentials?” He asked, but it was more a command than a question.  
“I showed them to the nurse--”  
“Yes, yes you showed them to Nurse Bratwurst, but she’s incompetent. I need to see your credentials.” He said with finality, his blue eyes piercing hers. She rummaged in her pocket and produced her identification, which he scanned for a few moments. “Mycroft sent a trainee to me?” He rolled his eyes and began scribbling at his sheet music again, interest apparently gone. “I didn’t expect brother mine to come visit himself…. but sending a trainee?” He scoffed, erasing and writing again.  
“I came to ask you some questions--”   
“Oh I’m sure you did,” Sherlock interrupted, sighing and tossing the well worn pencil onto the bench in exasperation. “Everyone wants to ask questions. The real trick, Ms. Hooper, is to sell me on it. So what are you selling today, hmm?” His eyes locked on hers quickly, biting his lower lip, “What could you possibly do to make me want to help you?” His eyes narrowed, but she held her ground, her face impassive, and held his gaze. This standoff was not going to end well, Molly knew. He would toy with her, ridicule her, and then turn to stone. Then she remembered, pulling the single cigarette from her jacket pocket without leaving his gaze.  
“A gift…. from your brother,” She handed the cigarette over, and Sherlock turned the cylindrical object in between his fingers, and actually smiled.  
“Mmm but we both know that’s not true Ms. Hooper,” Sherlock turned his face up to her. Molly’s cheeks flushed and her eyes diverted, giving herself away.   
She mentally chided herself as Sherlock grinned. “But I must say you almost had me convinced.   
“See, my brother… he doesn’t approve of my habits, but he does sometimes placate me with cigarettes. Nothing like these though. These are a better brand than his typical choice. You brought this for me.” He stood up abruptly, walking to the window, which he pushed open gently, allowing a small breeze and the smell of rain to permeate the room.   
“You brought a lighter, I assume?” His eyes closed momentarily as the breeze hit his face, and Molly strode over to the other side of the window, lighting his cigarette for him with a flick of her metal lighter, and tucking it quickly away back in her briefcase. He inhaled the nicotine with relish, smiling and opening his eyes slowly as the smoke exited his nostrils. Molly watched him with rapt curiosity. She knew that she had to gain his trust in order for him to be open to her questions, and she believed that they both knew that it was working, if only slightly. He offered to share the cigarette, and Molly would have refused but for her goal of camaraderie lingering close. She took a long drag, exhaling without a hint of discomfort, which surprised both of them. Sherlock chuckled and crossed his arms, the cigarette dangling from his index and middle finger “Alright Ms. Hooper, you have my undivided attention,” he blew the smoke out quickly, a smirk playing on his face. “Plead your case, as it were.”   
“You’ve heard of the Honeymoon Killer I assume?” She started, knowing that throwing him piece by piece of information first would keep his interest.   
“Mmm. I read the papers. Watch the news reports. How many have they got so far? Four couples last I heard.” He said nonchalantly, flicking his ash out the window, “Seems the police are, as usual, completely baffled,” Sherlock looked out the window, the smirk fading from his lips, “Is that why you’re here, Ms. Hooper? Some run-of-the-mill serial killer? If that is even what it is.”   
Molly scoffed and retorted quickly, “Run-of-the-mill? How can you say that?” Her tone was defiant, to which he retorted quickly, “Because Ms. Hooper, Ms. Trainee, or maybe Mycroft’s new plaything?” He jabbed, her face reddening in anger, “My brother has called on my services for more than you can even fathom, the least of which being serial murder.”   
He inched closer, his smirk began to eat at her, and she was attempting to calm herself, but it was futile. “So give me one good reason to endeavor to help you.”  
He loomed over her now, but Molly spat back, “Because I know your type. You need a puzzle. You need to get your fix. Soon the cigarettes won’t be enough will they? I saw your hand shaking at the piano. That’s the reason why you don’t have a violin here, not because of potential harm to yourself or others. You can’t play without shaking anymore.”  
She swallowed as his expression turned to stone.  
“Get. Out. We’re done here.” He turned with finality to the piano bench, clenching and unclenching his fists.  
Molly stood where she was, “I’ll be back later this week with the case file,” she said quickly, and he turned quickly, indignation apparent on his face, “Did you not hear me?!? We’re done! I’m not interested. You have wasted enough of my time,” He growled, sitting down on the bench, turning to his scribblings.  
“Go back to your studies, Ms. Trainee. Crawl back to my brother and explain how badly behaved I’ve been.” He scoffed, still working through the musical phrase he couldn’t quite figure out, running his hand through his curls.   
Molly knew she shouldn’t do what she was about to do, but she saw it as her only chance to redeem herself and potentially salvage the encounter. She gently sat at the edge of the piano bench, to which she received no response from the man on the other end of the bench. She began to play his melody, but instead of stopping where he had, she reached carefully across his slender frame, her shoulder lightly touching his, and finished his phrase he had been struggling with the entire afternoon. She stood up from the bench quickly, retrieved her briefcase from the floor and made her way to the double doors without a word. The air was thick with anticipation as she hoped her attempt at reconciliation had worked.   
“Ms. Hooper.” He said, his voice coarse. She stopped but did not turn around. “I’ll look at the case file. Bring me a few more of those cigarettes and we’ll see what we can do.” Molly smirked, her back still turned, and proceeded to walk through the double doors and out to the lobby.


	3. Chapter 3: The Puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my long absence. Good news is I have a lot of ideas for this fic that will feed my need to write. Enjoy my loves.

The ride back to the academy was uneventful, but Molly could barely sit still. She kept rearranging herself in the backseat, going over the encounter that had just occurred in her mind and thinking up questions she’d need to answer before she met with Sherlock again. She jotted notes rapidly on the manila folder in front of her, trying to keep everything fresh in her mind. She smirked as she heard the familiar rapping of rain hit the window, and continued scribbling. She felt like a part of Sherlock’s eagerness had worn off on her as she wrote, and she stopped suddenly. This whole situation just didn’t fit together like it should. Information was missing, and not just the information redacted by thick, black lines from Mycroft’s portion of the file. Sure, she had the dossier full of the information Mycroft allowed her to have, but who knows if all of that information was true? It was highly improbable that it was complete. A man like Sherlock Holmes cooped up in such a high security facility for drug offenses, especially with a connected brother like Mycroft Holmes just didn’t add up for Molly. More research needed to be done, but she knew that asking Mycroft would probably lead her nowhere. Molly knew she’d have to do her digging elsewhere, and preferably without Mycroft’s knowledge. 

The car approached the revolving doors and Molly smiled at the driver and hopped out of the backseat, clutching the manila folder to her chest and briefcase to her side, and climbed the steps quickly to avoid the rain, which had decided to suddenly begin again with gusto. Once inside, she shook off her blazer and smoothed her hair, and immediately made eye contact with John Watson, who had been combing through his hair repeatedly, leaving it mussy in the back. Molly approached John slowly, her eyes probing his own for some kind of explanation for his behavior.   
`  
John met her in two strides, smiling quickly, then spoke, “How’d it go?” He tried to sound casual, but there was a nervous edge to his voice that made Molly choose her next words carefully. “Fine, he was…” She paused, trying to find the right word to describe Sherlock Holmes, “He was interesting.” She settled on a vague descriptor, but John’s anxious gaze still held hers. Molly rolled her eyes, placing a hand on John’s upper arm, “John, it’s fine. I made it back in one piece didn’t I? He agreed to cooperate and I--” Molly’s eyes drifted to a figure standing a few yards away, his gaze piercing her. Mycroft Holmes was leaning against his umbrella, ankle crossed. Though his body language seemed lax, his eyes told her a different story. 

Molly cleared her throat as John waited for her to continue.”I’ll tell you later… okay?” She stammered out quickly, feeling Mycroft’s piercing gaze. John looked confused but looked behind him to see where Molly’s gaze was directed, and let out a sigh, his shoulders slumped as he gave a curt nod to Mr. Holmes, and turned back to Molly, giving her a tight lipped smile, “We will talk later.” He said, and patted her shoulder as he turned and walked toward the shooting range, shooting one quick glance at Mycroft Holmes before walking down an adjacent hall. Mycroft’s attention turned back to Molly, and she swallowed deeply and approached her superior. Mycroft gave her a tight lipped smile that did not reach his eyes, and gestured for her to follow him as he turned swiftly on his heel and approached the elevators. 

“Mr. Holmes--” Molly began, but Mycroft turned quickly back to her, and Molly stopped her forward movement before completely plowing into him, one hand accidentally pressed against his chest to stop her forward movement. He stared down at her, and she stared up at him. She tried to read his gaze, but it was impenetrable. They stood there for a few moments, before Mycroft cleared his throat and replied, “I would have hoped by now Ms. Hooper, that you would know this is not the place for this conversation.” His voice was slightly condescending, his eyes looking around the crowded entrance hall. Molly swallowed and nodded, following Mycroft into the elevator quietly.

He pressed the button that would bring them down to his basement office, and he stood, hands clutching his umbrella handle in front of him. He stood ramrod straight, and though any other man would look like he was stressed or anxious with such body language, Mycroft Holmes seemed oddly assured and relaxed. There was so much information about Mycroft Holmes that Molly wasn’t privy to, and likely never would be. Oddly enough, she felt that she was probably one of the few people who knew the most about him. He’d recruited her for this assignment, and that in itself was a huge sign of trust. Allowing a trainee to carry a weapon and badge, nevermind sending her on an assignment, was practically unheard of. In fact, Molly had an odd suspicion that it had never happened before. They exited the elevator in silence, and they approached the sad placard that marked his office. He opened the door and ushered her inside. Molly took her spot in the office chair, but instead of Mycroft taking his seat behind his desk, He turned towards her, a small, satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he leaned himself against his desk, his long legs crossed and stretched out past her chair. He folded his arms, and for a moment, he just studied her. What he was searching for was unknown, but Molly returned the gaze, her features seeming neither unnerved or tense. Mycroft cleared his throat and licked his lips, his eyes became unfocused on the wall behind her. “Mrs. Hudson has informed me about your visit with my brother.” He started, and Molly nodded slowly. She had assumed that of the many roles Mrs. Hudson played, one was definitely Mycroft’s eyes and ears regarding his brother. “What did you think of him, Ms. Hooper?” He asked, “--and do be honest.” 

Molly cleared her throat, “He’s obviously highly intelligent. Well spoken. His attempts at intimidation would scare a less formidable person.” He seemed amused by this, but urged her to continue.  
“He’s bored, Mr. Holmes. He reminded me of one of those… lions at the zoo. Pacing back and forth behind the bars and wearing a path in the dirt. I pitied him.” Molly finished, fiddling with a loose string on her briefcase.   
Mycroft chuckled, “He’s undeserving of such pity, Ms. Hooper. He has created his predicament. He chose his lot.” He finished, moving towards his own chair.  
“Mrs. Hudson mentioned cigarettes?” He said, leaving the question hanging before Molly licked her lips, looking for an explanation, “Uh-- yes sir. That was my own doing. I apologize, but from my experience--” but Mycroft cut her off, “It was a smart move, Ms. Hooper. I applaud you for it. One of the reasons I knew you’d be an excellent fit.”   
Molly blushed slightly and he shuffled through papers on his desk before continuing, “So I take it he has agreed to assist you?”  
Molly nodded slowly, “Reluctantly, yes. I have a feeling he’s still trying to figure me out. I provided enough information to pique his interest. I am to return tomorrow to give him more information.” She added quickly, “If that’s alright by you Mr. Holmes.” 

Mycroft nodded, “I’ll speak to your other instructors. You may go, but I need you to keep any pertinent information away from your peers, are we clear?” He eyed her as she picked up her briefcase, “Of course sir.” She turned towards the door and reached the handle when Mycroft spoke up again, “Ms. Hooper, I do hope you realize that this promise of a case is merely placating him with busy work,” He paused, and she looked over her shoulder, “It’s people. He reads them, he predicts them. Sherlock feeds off the high from puzzles that need solving, and what is more fascinating than a human puzzle? You piqued his interest, Ms. Hooper.... not necessarily this case. Take that as a compliment and as a warning.”


End file.
